


Dibs

by sparxwrites



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, In The Flesh AU, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 09:24:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2727212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Holy shit,” says Ross, eyebrows raised so high they’re disappearing into his hairline. “Holy shit, Smiffy. You’re shitting me. You’re actually shitting me.”<br/>Smith just blinks at him in shell-shocked confusion, gesturing at nothing in particular in a vaguely helpless fashion. “I just woke up and it was there,” he says, faintly, staring down at his lap. “Just… there. Am I dreaming, Ross?”</p><p>(In which Smith has a certain natural morning reaction, which shouldn't be all that unusual - other than the slight fact that he's technically dead, without a heartbeat, and so it shouldn't be happening. In The Flesh AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dibs

**Author's Note:**

> written for the dragon wife (sipserino on tumblr) bc she was having a bad evening, and also talked to me about this au for like three days straigh
> 
> For those not familiar with In The Flesh: basically, there are people with PDS/who are PDS sufferers that are essentially zombies, and they get shots of neurotryptyline to keep them from going mindless/savage. The only way to recover is via a mysterious process called "warming up" (idk how this works, and idk if they've explained it on the actual show) which involves, oddly enough, warming up and sensation returning. For those who are familiar with ITF, please be gentle with me and forgive me my probably multitude errors.

“Holy shit,” says Ross, eyebrows raised so high they’re disappearing into his hairline. “Holy shit, Smiffy. You’re shitting me. You’re _actually_ shitting me.”

Smith just blinks at him in shell-shocked confusion, gesturing at nothing in particular in a vaguely helpless fashion. “I just woke up and it was there,” he says, faintly, staring down at his lap. “Just… there. Am I dreaming, Ross?”

“I think _I’m_ dreaming,” says Ross. His mouth’s not quite hanging open, but it’s a close thing. “God _damn_.”

Groaning helplessly, Smith tugs the sheets from his grip, settles them protectively back over his lap. “I- I’m a bloody PDS sufferer, though!” he says, as though that isn’t already common knowledge – as though his boyfriends have somehow managed to miss the cold skin and discoloured eyes and endless shots of neurotryptyline. “My heart doesn’t fucking beat! I don’t have a blood flow, how-”

“Well, seems like _something’s_ got your blood flowing all right,” says Ross, raising an eyebrow and managing eye contact for all of two seconds before doubling over in loud laughter at the despairing resignation in Smith’s eyes. “What? It’s a _joke_ , mate. _Laugh_.”

When Smith just gives him a Look, he sighs, drags a hand through his hair and scratches at the bolt of his jaw. “Fine, fine, look. I’ll wake Trott up, because, quite honestly, I don’t have any fucking idea what this means or what to do with it.” He looks over at the other man lying in the bed with them, curled precariously on the edge and somehow still asleep despite the noise they’ve been making. “He’s a science-y little shit, he’ll know what to do.”

Before Smith can object, or even get him to pause, Ross leans over to his right and smacks Trott’s shoulder. “Oi! Trotty-boy! Wake up!”

Trott wakes up with a yelp, narrowly avoiding being shoved out of the bed and hitting the floor as Ross grabs his shoulder and begins shaking him overenthusiastically. “What?!” he asks, scrubbing the sleep out of his eyes and trying to force his brain awake. “What happened? Who died?”

“Smith!” cries Ross, still shaking Trott’s shoulders until the other man wakes up enough to slap his hands away so he can sit up.  
“Again,” adds Smith, dryly, before adding, “I didn’t actually!” when Trott blinks at him in bleary, wide-eyed alarm.

Ross grabs hold of Trott’s face, on the basis his hands have been pushed away from Trott’s shoulders, and presses forward so their noses are practically touching. “Trott,” he says, voice low and incredibly serious. “Smiffy’s got a _boner_.”

For a long second, there’s silence, and then Trott whistles quietly. “No _way_ , mate,” he says, shoving Ross out the way and leaning over to try and tug the covers away from Smith’s lap. “Let me see.” He scowls when Smith makes a strangled sort of noise, clutching the sheets over his crotch. “Let me see!”

“It’s not- it’s not _public entertainment_!” squawks Smith, embarrassed, wrestling with Trott to keep himself covered.

“It _is_ kind of entertaining,” points out Ross, scowling when Trott punches his shoulder. “What? He’s laughed at our morning wood often enough, surely we get to take the piss out of his.”  
“It’s- do you have _any idea_ how significant this is?” says Trott incredulously. “This should be- it’s fucking impossible, what his dick’s doing. He’s got a dick that’s defying science. Like- this could be _huge_ , this could lead to a cure, or…” He trails off, not really knowing where he was going. “Yeah. Or stuff.”

There’s a pause for a second, where they both just stare at each other, before Ross mutters, “Nerd,” under his breath and Trott’s face darkens.  
“You take that back, you little prick!”

The descent into bickering is almost instantaneous, leaving Smith staring at them both with something between incredulity and fondness.

Eventually, though, he gets bored just watching. “Hey, hey,” says Smith, plaintively, waving a hand in front of their faces in an attempt to shut them up. “I mean. As fun as it is listening to you guys argue, I think we’re forgetting that this is my first boner in like. Forever. Can someone please hurry the fuck up and suck it already?”

“…Can we finish arguing first?” asks Trott, and then yelps in an offended sort of fashion when Ross hits him round the back of the head.  
“You heard the man!” he says, grinning widely. “No time for arguing! There’s a dick to suck, and I’m gonna be the one to suck it.”

Trott makes an offended noise. “You what, mate?” he says, shoving Ross out the way to crawl over the bed and settle himself on Smith’s lap. “I think it’s obvious who has the superior dick-sucking skills here. Me,” he adds, when Ross just looks confused, and grins when Ross’ expression sours into indignation.

Before they can start fighting again, though, Smith cuts them off with a sharp inhale. “I- I can feel that,” he says, swallowing, staring at where Trott’s knees are bracketing his thighs. The pressure of them against flesh and muscle, rubbing the jogging bottoms he sleeps in against skin, is something he hasn’t felt since he died.

He hasn’t felt _anything_ since he died.

Drawing in a deep breath, and then another, he bends forward, presses his face against the crook of Trott’s neck and tries to quell the rising lump of _something_ in his chest, swallowing down tears and trembling. He has no idea what this means, what any of it means, but it’s almost too big to deal with nonetheless.

Ross reaches out a hand to comfort him, resting a hand on his shoulder and stroking him with slow sweeps of his thumb back and forth – and then blinks, freezing when his thumb brushes skin and it’s _warm_. “Mate,” he says, slowly, carefully. “I don’t think you’re a PDS sufferer any more.”

“What?” says Trott, frowning. His voice is quiet, urgent, eyes wide as he searches Ross’ face like he thinks Ross is about to start laughing, say it was all a joke. “What do you mean?”

Rather than answer, Ross just catches Trott’s hand and settles it over the left side of Smith’s chest. He lets go when he sees the look of amazement spread over Trott’s face, grabs Smith’s fingers instead and squeezes them hard. “Your heart’s beating, Smiff,” he says.

“Oh my god.” Smith’s voice is quiet, somewhere between shell-shocked and faintly, disbelievingly hysterical. He squeezes Ross’ hand where their fingers are entwined, presses his forehead against Trott’s shoulder. “Oh my _god_. I’m- I’m not dead, and I’ve- I’ve got a fucking _boner_.”

There’s a pause for a second, and then Trott grins. “Not to ruin the totally awesome Moment we’re having, but I call dibs,” he pipes up, grin widening at the frustrated borderline-howl of defeat that escapes Ross’ throat.

Smith just laughs wetly against the side of Trott’s neck, finally pulling away and sitting up to scrub a hand across eyes that are ever so slightly too shiny in the early morning light filtering through their shitty curtains. “Don’t worry, guys,” he says, squeezing Ross’ fingers again. His breath catches in his throat when Ross squeezes back and he can actually _feel_ it. “There’s plenty of boner to go around.”


End file.
